Over The Wall
by Argentine Rose
Summary: Which tells the story leading up to Valjean's first escape from prison. Bigger. Longer and Uncut! Beware the very badly writen i don't do romance slash. Expanded for AmZ. Finally finished.
1. A prologue which is also an epilogue

"I honestly don't know why you put up with him, Monsieur le Maire," Mme Paradis remarks, exasperated. Not, I must add, the first time she has made such a remark, either this morning or within the past three years. You see, my concierge is a woman of strong and passionate opinions and once her displeasure is incurred . . . well, may the Good Lord preserve me and keep me mindful of my blessed state in not being Javert

"Uncouth, that's what he is!" she continues, setting down my coffee, "Barging in here at the Heaven alone knows what time it is, tracking mud through the house and demanding to see you before I've even so much as set the fire and laid out the breakfast things! I ask you?!"

"He was only doing his duty, Madame Paradis. It was a matter of some urgency – "

"That's as may be, Monsieur le Maire, but there's no need to be rude. Sweeps in like the Emperor himself without so much as a 'may I?' let alone a 'Good Morning' or 'Thank you very much, Madame'.

"I'm sure Javert goes about his duty in the best and most efficient way he knows how – "

"Monsieur Taillefer was never rude, poor man. Always so pleasant that you quite forgot what he was. Not like this one! And the way he looks at you, Monsieur Madeleine. I'm surprised you're not more sensible of that. Impertinent, the way he looks at you – that's what I'd call it."

Mme Paradis has been in my employ for nearly five years now. She is a good woman but when she gets something like this into her head it's like watching a dog with a bone. I shan't get any sense out of her until at least lunchtime. And Javert was rude – is rude – no possible way of denying that. For not the first time in my life, silence seems to be the best policy.

"Would it be any trouble for you to fetch me another pot of coffee, Madame Paradis?"

She bobs her head and makes off to the kitchen in that peculiar way the women of this town have – a busy flurry that manages to achieve precisely nothing. I suppose it would be fair to say that the women move the way their menfolk talk. She forgets to shut the door behind her and the occasional word or phrase – "Badly licked bear" . . . "Rudeness" . . . "Not so much as a 'by your leave' – floats back to me as I linger over my bread and lukewarm coffee.  
Mme Paradis is the only person who ever asks me _why_ I put up with Javert. Plenty of people in Montreuil wonder _how_ I put up with him, infuriating creature that he undoubtedly is. It's much as they wonder how _they_ put up with him, or the rowdy soldiers from the garrison, or bad weather or taxes or any of the other impositions life can make on a small provincial town. There is great curiosity, I know, as to how I've not had a cross word with him in three years whena goodhalf of them have called him bastard and blackguard at least once, either to his face or behind his back. It is interesting to note that virtue, in some of its incarnations, can upset people far more than any amount of vice. And this is how I in fact do put up with him, by reminding myself that there is, essentially, no real harm in the man. There are plenty of worse men in this world than Inspector Javert.  
The question of _why _I put up with him is, to their minds, obvious: I am Pere Madeleine after all, who never has a harsh word for anyone. This, I suppose, is part of the reason and good enough

Javert arrived in our town in the New Year of 1820. It was Epiphany, now I come to think of it: I was coming home from a mass at the chapel of the orphans' hospital that afternoon and the town wore the most ordinary aspect in the world. And yet, when I turned the corner into the rue Boulanger I honestly thought my heart would stop. I do not wish to sound hysterical. It was simply a question of surprise. After all, the living do not expect to see the dead and no more do the dead expect to encounter the living.  
I do not think I was ever superstitious, even when I was wholly uneducated. If anything, education has broadened my mind to the possibility of spectres – after all, since there is a Holy Ghost why shouldn't there be ghosts unholy? Also, I have lived as one of the dead for so long myself . . .Anyway, at half two in the afternoon of the sixth of January, year of Our Lord 1820, on the corner of rue Boulanger, I became convinced that I was seeing a ghost, the spirit of one long departed and sorely missed.

"Andoche?" I said to myself, obliged to stop and rest a hand against the wall for support.

Here is what I saw. Outside the _Joli Coeur_ stood a sad little cart drawn by an equally sad little horse, not one of Scaufflaire's, but evidently hired, which Roux the ostler was trying to coax round into the back yard without any great success.  
Pere LeClerc was standing outside the inn, surrounded by an assortment of trunks and boxes – too many for a visitor but rather scanty to be someone's worldly goods – and deep in conversation with a ghost! He was a tall man in a grey coat and I presumed him to be the proprietor of both the boxes and the sorry little cart (_Were these too supernatural?_ I wondered).

What did I feel at that moment? Curiosity of the most ardent sort, surprise and . . . fear. Certainly. Fear of the tall figure and his uncanny appearance in Montreuil. Dazed, I began to walk towards the _Joli Coeur_, no longer certain that I could trust the evidence of my senses.

Mme LeClerc had come out of the kitchen and was trying to tempt the horse into the coach yard with a crust of stale bread in her outstretched palm. The creature, however, was having none of it. Roux looked flustered, his soft, stupid face gone as red as his hair. The spirit made a gesture of excuse to Pere LeClerc and walked over to the embarrassed looking boy. He spoke a few words to the horse, then another few to Roux, who stepped forward and took the animal's bridle again. The spirit raised an enormous hand and fetched the pony a ringing slap on the flank. Thus startled into movement, the Roux was able to lead it away.  
The stranger shrugged dismissively and turned back to LeClerc, and all of a sudden there was no ghost. I knew exactly who this man was, though he was no less terrifying for being rendered mortal.  
He was saying something to LeClerc about Poullin's boy being round for the cart within the hour and Pere LeClerc was saying something about the baggage in the street.  
I turned on my heel and walked home the long way through the fields, considerably perturbed

I was introduced to Javert properly three days later, and since have come to know him well enough.  
On that first meeting I was principally struck by just how unlike he was: he's a bigger, taller man for a start, his bearing more rigid – straight backed and arms folded where I had expected to see a lithe, easy slouch. In nature too he could not be more unlike the man I had mistaken him for. But then, I already knew that, having been acquainted with him in a former life.  
And yet there are times, little things, which produce an almost unbearable, unbelievable similarity. Something as slight as the raising of an eyebrow to a certain angle, a humorous inflection placed on certain words, a habit of flexing the fingers like a farm cat going into a barn. Many a time a small, unconscious gesture of that kind has served to make me forget myself. Many a time I have had to bite my tongue to stop myself calling him Andoche.  
Surely it is not so great a crime to call a man Andoche instead of Louis? Particularly when the circumstances are so . . . extenuating? One would think not, but that name, once pronounced, would expose me. Javert would hesitate to throw himself on me and devour me was I to pronounce that name in his presence. I am close enough to exposure as it is, for I really believe that he does suspect me.

So, I treat him with every kindness and consideration, as any sensible man might, although often I think this irritates him more than if I treated him with the rudeness to which he is doubtless accustomed.  
There is logic in that which the good people of Montreuil would doubtless understand. The logic of keeping one's enemies close and catching flies with honey is not unknown to them. However, there are other reasons for it too. I am kind to Javert because I feel obliged to be kind to him. In my kindness to Javert I am repaying a debt. I see this as my duty (not my religious duty). Lord knows there are times when I wish I could just throw up my hands in despair like Mme Paradis. I'm sure anyone else would. And then there are times – when he says something especially droll, when I nearly call him by the wrong name – that I know I never shall.


	2. An event not unusual in Bicetre

On the 22nd April, 1796, a chain gang left Bicetre bound for Toulon, This was not in and of itself an unusual occurrence and, although there is a story to be told here, it must be said that this transport of the 22nd was little different to any other. It concerned the same proportion of incorrigibles and unfortunates as usual. Some men wept while others sat in indifferent silence, much as always.

As is customary, the mens' heads were shaved to precluded the possibility both of lice and individuality. They were clad in their new red uniform which, although shameful, was considerably less squalid than the clothes of many of the prisoners. They then had iron collars riveted about their necks, for reasons of security during transport. At Toulon they would also acquire a shackle about the right leg, just to make certain.

In the north corner of the prison yard, towards the end of the fourth chain, one of the silent prisoners watched his neighbour, who was weeping noisily. As the collar was hammered about his neck the man mumbled thickly:

"I was a tree pruner in Faverolles."

He then raised his hand and, before the guard could slap it down, lowered it in seven descending stages as if to indicate a family group standing in order of height.

"Oh dear, oh dear," muttered his grim faced neighbour with a demon's chuckle, "What a lummox they've chained me next to! Poor lad."

At Toulon, as we have said, the convicts are fitted with their leg irons and one man is fixed to another, always one older to one younger. The weeping man, who could not have been above twenty-eight, was chained to his ironical neighbour from Bicetre, who would have been at least forty-five.

The older man winked at his neighbour as the irons were fixed on, but the younger man did not notice him.

One of the turnkeys, a lean sallow little fellow, approached and addressed the older convict with an amused expression.

"Back again, Griffon, I see."

"Y'know how it is, Chicken – can't keep away!"

"Well, it's always nice to see an old horse returned to the meadow. Now get on with you! I know you know your way but," gesturing to the gendarmes, "these gentlemen will show you anyway,"

The chain gang having arrived unusually late, due to a broken axle on one of the wagons, the prisoners were sent straight to their cells in order for work to begin on the morrow. Lying on his plank bed the young man began to weep again.

"Buck up there, young'un," said Griffon, "No need to go blubbing your ogles out! Carry on weeping like that and you'll drown us all in our beds. Which might be a mercy 'cept with circumstances willing I'll slip my chain and disappear before I've done much work here"

There was a silence in which the younger man could almost be heard questioning his chainmate's sanity.

'Well, at least he's stopped crying', though Griffon. Then he asked: "What's your name. Sonny?"

"Jean Valjean – I was a tree pruner in Faverolles."

"Yes, we know that," said Griffon dryly. "Well, my name's Andoche – though you may call me Griffon, since everyone else takes the liberty – and I am what you might call a fanandel, a rogue, a brother of the night. Say, what you in here for, Jean?"

"Theft"

"You and me both, mate. Though in my case we can add murder and recidivism – now isn't that a word that just rolls off the tongue? What did you steal?"

"A loaf of bread."

"Oh dear, you are a prize chump! There's an old English expression a sailor once taught me – 'might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb' – clearly you've never heard that one."

Valjean, for his part, felt a vague horror at being chained to a man that could admit to being a murderer with such joviality. He was also very tired and heartily wished his neighbour would shut up and let him sleep. Consequently he did not reply.

Receiving the distinct impression that he was being ignored, Griffon grumbled: "Fine. As you wish. Hoped I'd get chained to a ray of sunshine like you!"

He turned over and went to sleep as if he were at home in his own bed. Which, being a returned horse, he might as well have been.

The next day dawned as fine as any May morning might. Not that most of the convicts were aware of it. The new arrivals were, for the most part, too wrapped up in their own misery to notice much of anything. The old lags paid scant attention to the cavorting of Mother Nature. As far as they were concerned the sun was sent only to burn their faces and the wind to bring on chills and pneumonia, as if the weather conspired with their gaolers to render life as difficult as possible. However, Griffon, who had to be the exception to every rule, was whistling. He whistled until a stocky, red-faced guard cracked him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle.

"That's Delbecq – right nasty piece of work," Griffon advised Valjean in a pained whisper, "You want to watch out for him. He'll beat you for breathing amiss"

Valjean nodded curtly to show he understood, for he had no desire to experience either Delbecq's rifle or his meaty looking fists. Griffon straightened himself up and they began to follow the rest of their chain aboard the hulk _Glorieux,_ which had clearly been named by someone with a sense of humour.

Jean Valjean soon found that he was able to grow used to the work which, although harder than the jobs he might have done as a free man, was not too different in character. There were other things that he did not get used to – but what of that? His tremendous physical strength was an asset to him, winning him both occasional privileges from his gaolers and esteem from his fellow inmates. Griffon taught him to stuff the length of his chain into his pocket to stop it trailing, how to trade on the prison's black economy for food or liquor, and made him a set of 'runners' to prevent his leg iron rubbing. Valjean at first grew to accept his eccentric chainmate, and then to like him. Eventually he let Griffon know, in his grim, taciturn way, that he considered him as a friend. At first he had been profoundly resentful of these feelings, having decided that he wanted no further dealings with humanity other than those which were strictly necessary. He began by simply being extremely grateful to his chainmate, by admitting that the beginning of his life in prison would have been infinitely more difficult without Griffon's adroit and streetwise guiding hand. He was also grateful for the patience and concern which the old returned horse had shown him. Other prisoners on their chain noticed this partiality and there were a few snickered jokes about 'Tantette' and 'La Reine le Cric'. The first, and indeed last, time Griffon overheard one of these quips he simply raised his eyebrow and said:

"Now, now lads – I'm a married man, remember."

The remark was made mildly enough but accompanied by a look which, although not overtly unpleasant, was commanding enough to create an uncomfortable silence. Eventually a youngish con, a petty theif named Varlet, had said:

"Speaking of, you do realise your son's in here?"

"Oh, which one?" Griffon remarked lazily, "Actually, it has to be Andre"

"No, the other one"

"What? Idiot boy? Really?"

"Yes really"

"What's he in here for. This should be a laugh – "

"He's a guard, serves under Blanchard."

"Ah," said Griffon, his manner suddenly devoid of all humour. "Well that's all very nice and I'm sure he has to get his bread somehow, but if you'll kindly get back to the job and help shift this before Delbecq sees."

Valjean had only a vague understanding of the jokes about 'aunties' and 'queens', but he was sure that mention of his son had put Griffon off balance. Since it was utterly unlike Griffon to be discomposed by anything, Valjean brought the subject up when they were back in their cells.

"Are you alright, Andoche?"

Griffon did not reply, simply looked at him then leant forward and brushed his lips across the corner of Valjean's mouth. It was little more than a friends might do in greeting but Valjean had an obscure sense that there was something in the gesture different and profound and . . . wrong? He looked at his friend with a mixture of astonishment and stupidity.

"I'm sorry," said Griffon matter-of-factly, "I don't know what came over me. But you know how it is . . ." He looked at the young man more closely, "No, you _don't _know how it is, do you? Ah well, no matter" He looked away and said quietly to himself, "No matter – circumstances were against us." The he smiled and was, for all the world, the some cheerful Andoche the Valjean had been chained to for two years.

It was this resilience, this belief that, circumstances being with you, anything was possible that Valjean most valued in Griffon. He managed to convince Valjean that whatever they had to endure was strictly temporary and, as such, not worth giving a bean for. Soon fortune would smile on them and they would escape.


	3. The new arrival

As the author it is my duty to tell you something, so I shall say it happened in September. I do not know if this is entirely accurate – nobody records these things, after all – but mid September seems the most likely time.

What is recorded, and therefore verifiable, is that a consignment of prisoners arrived at Toulon on the 1st September 1800. I shall not describe them; you may imagine them as being much the same as the consignment of 1896 that brought Griffon and Valjean to the Var.

Also in the records is that amongst the prisoners brought to Toulon at this time was one Thomas Laurent.

Thomas Laurent was a man of thirty-two, neither tall nor short, neither good nor bad, neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things. He had been persuaded to take part in a robbery by an acquaintance. Had consented because he had a sick wife and had been told it was easy, and had been caught. Before this he had been a worker at printers in the rue de Sabot; when he arrived at Toulon his hands were still stained with ink. Long before that, he had been born in Brie, something that is only of any real importance to us and the records of justice. Laurent himself had left for Paris at the age of eighteen and seldom though of his childhood in Faverolles.

Now life, as Andoche was often wont to remark, is a funny old thing and, due this peculiarity, the reader might easily guess that Laurent ended up on the same chain and Jean Valjean and Andoche. There was, of course, another first night scene, only Thomas did not cry. The only way in which he showed any sign of anxiety was by a constant fidgeting. He turned from one side to another, twisted into as many positions as his chain would allow, drummed his feet tapped his fingers and generally made an utter nuisance of himself. The other prisoners ignored him, at least for that first night, being well used to such peculiarities. Inevitable, as the nights rolled on, someone's patience wore thin. The someone was Varlet: he asked Laurent in a tight-lipped, exhausted voice to just stop it

"Sorry, yeah," said Laurent, and almost instantaneously rolled over again, banging his chain.

"Just bloody stop it!"

"Sorry, yeah," and he began to drum his fingers on the side of his cot.

"Oh for Fuck's sake!"

Andoche began to laugh.

"I don't know what the hell you're laughing at, Griffon", snapped Varlet, who at this point was so near the end of his tether that he would have told Monsieur Delbecq himself to go take a running jump if he had entered the cell at that moment.

"Ah, nothing, my friend, nothing. It's just that I've worked out that there's enough length in my chain to wrap it round that bugger's neck."

Laurent gave a convulsive little gulp and for five minutes lay as still as a death man, then he began to tap again. Andoche began to whistle.

"To the baker's with you, Griffon, but what the hell are you doing now?"

"I," said Andoche, with such merriment that one could almost see his eyes twinkle in the dark with it, "am providing a wind accompaniment to the percussion. D'you reckon you could tap out a gavotte for us, mate?"

"Nutters! I'm chained to a pack of fucking nutters!" whined Varlet, "Mad as a March – "

Valjean, who had maintained a stony silence throughout this performance, now sat bolt upright on his pallet and said in a subdued, forceful tone that carried more weight than a shout: "Jesus Christ but would you all shut up, you band of wretches!"

Silence, once again, reigned and Jean Valjean lay back down, not noticing that in his exasperation he had reverted to the Patois of his childhood.

"Auvergnat," said the newcomer after an interval, "where you from?"

Since Varlet was a Parisian and Andoche was from wherever he chose, Valjean realised that it must have been him that was meant.

"Faverolles," he answered.

"Me also, friend. Your name?"

"Le Cric. Or, rather, Valjean."

"Jean?" The one who . . . went to prison?"

"As you see me."

"I saw her, you know."

"Saw who?" Valjean asked, nonplussed.

"Jeanne."

"Jeanne?"

"Jeanne your sister. Jeanne Montet."

"Jeanne? You saw Jeanne? Where? Where is she? And the children, no? You must have seen them. Jean? Paul? Marie?"

"The youngest I saw, the little boy – I don't know his name."

"Paul. That's Paul."

"It was like this," Laurent said in a level, dispassionate voice, "Before I cam here I worked at a printers in the rue de Sabot. About a year and a bit ago, who should turn up looking for work but Jeanne? She got a job as a stitcher – I put in a good word for her – and I think she lived near Saint-Sulpice."

"Good, very good! And Paul?"

"The boy. I remember seeing him. She used to bring him along to work with her to go to the school in the same building. Only we started at six and the school not till seven and she kept wanting to bring him into the workshop with her. But he used to get in the way so, in the end, he had to wait outside. I remember him sitting on the pavement hugging Mere Heurgon's cat – "

"And the other children?"

"I don't know."

"You must know!"

"I don't. I never saw them."

"Didn't Jeanne tell you?" Valjean asked, becoming agitated.

"Look friend, I don't even think she knew herself," said Laurent in a fearful tone. He half expected Valjean to leap from his bunk and set upon him, and was sure that he had grown no smaller since their youth in Faverolles.

But Valjean had sunk back down onto his pallet without another word, almost as if he had been winded.

Two hours later he had not changed position at all, lying facing the wall with his eyes fixed open. Andoche, who slept next to him, leant forward and pushed his elbow gently: "You're not asleep, are you?"

"No."

"I heard what Laurent said."

"Of course. Wouldn't be like you to miss it."

"I don't know whether to take that as an insult," Andoche commented dryly. Then he drew a deep breath and began: "I know . . . "and then thought better of it.

"Know what?"

"Nothing much. Why caged birds sing. Whatever you like, really."

Valjean rolled over onto his back and said in a tone that was not quite accusatory: "The opportune moment. That's what you're always on about, isn't it? So, when is it then? When is this 'opportune moment'?"

"Once again, I must plead ignorance."

"You're honest, I'll give you that, as chums go." And he turned so that he was face to face with Andoche: "Do you remember that day you found out about your son?"

"Yes"

In the dark Andoche could see what little light there was glancing off Valjean's pupils and he noted, not for the first time, how deep his eyes were. The two men were so close that their noses were almost touching. Their feet were, in fact, actually touching and then, momentarily, so were their hands. Then their noses and then their lips and he was conscious of a strong and steady pressure being laid on his upper arm. He felt, running through his entire body the tingle of that indefinable and electric impulse known to all good fanandels, the name of which is opportunity.


	4. Over the Wall

A/N. 'Javart' is an archaic vetinary term for a sore or ulcer on a horse's pastern. I have no idea what disease it actually refers to or what the modern equivalent is.  
To Anonymous - thanks for pointing out the Bicetre thing. I know it has an accent but my computer refuses to produce threm. Sorry to mutilate the French language ;-) Also thanks for pointing out the other two errors - I'll ammend them at some point. Oh, and I do read Nalzac and it's not coincicedence that Javert's perdecesor is named Taillefer - I'd just been re-reading Pere Goriot when I wrote that chapter.

* * *

On November 20th, four years since our story began, a group of convicts had been hired out to work in a quarry just outside of Toulon. Both Jean Valjean and Griffon were amongst this group. M Delbecq having been promoted, the chain gang was accompanied instead by two rather inexperienced young men. One of them, a cheerful blond lad who allowed the prisoners to sing as they worked, was supposedly guarding them on this day, sleepily watching them as the worked and sung.

_"Where is the woman I call my wife?  
Waiting for me to resume my life?  
Guarding her arse with a butcher's knife  
Or screwing the concierge?  
Over the wall!"_

This blond guard, Darbeau, walked a few paces distant from the workers to speak to the quarry foreman. Griffon took advantage of his complete lack of interest in his charges to whisper to Valjean:

"Are you all set? Do you understand what you have to do?"

"Head for Grasse and you'll catch me up."

"Yes, but before that?"

"I know what I have to do, Andoche, but I'm not sure how it's going to work. What about role call?"

"That's the beauty of it! You'll still be there, Jean, and able to answer your name – you'll just be strapped under the middle cart rather than sitting in it! Posh never checks, he just calls – I don't think he'd care if we all escaped."

"But what about the other one? He checks."

"I've got that sorted. I, like my father before me, was a horse doctor at one time – s'where my surname comes from. I'm going to have a play with his horse's shoes – with any luck he'll be well behind us."  
"But you can't pull the same trick again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow doesn't matter – I can manage, I've done it before! I just what to give you a head start. Four bloody years of school and circumstances are finally with us – Delbecq replaced by that fool Darbeau – "

At that moment another guard, a tall, dark-haired young man, joined Posh Darbeau and the foreman. Griffon gave a slight but visible shudder: " Urgh, heads down!" he whispered and picked up the next verse of the group's work song, singing with conviction.

_"Where are the children who bear my name?  
Making a circle to play a game?  
Do they say to the neighbours I'm not to blame  
Or spit at the thought of me?  
Over the wall!"_

The dark haired youth looked at him pointedly then at Darbeau.

"Are they allowed to do that, Charles?"

"Do what?"

"Sing"

" Ever the consciencious one, aren't you? Me, I have no idea! But I'll shut them up if you think that they're not."

Darbeau cracked his lash theatrically over the convicts' backs, not touching flesh but making the whip sing dangerously in the air

"Shut up, you dogs! Silence in the ranks!"

Griffon stopped a little later than the rest, still singing "Or spit at the thought of me" when the others were quiet. This earned him a cut of the whip from Darbeau and the reprimand, "It'll be double and solitary next time 57884"

In the late afternoon, Darbeau's attention having wandered again, Griffon, Varlet and Petit were able to strap Valjean under the middle wagon. He could scarcely be seen as it was, and the dangling legs of the prisoners would render him totally invisible when the cart was loaded. When they got onto the cart the three convicts huddled together to disguise their chain mate's absence.

The three wagons lumbered off back to the town. It seemed Griffon's attempt at sabotage had been successful since two miles short of the prison the brown mare ridden by the dark haired guard stumbled, slipping dork on her knees and pitching the young man onto the road.

"Bloody hell, mate! Are you alright?"

"Fine," said the young guard, looking over his dusty uniform and the smear of blood on one of the mare's knees. "No harm done, I think. But her bloody shoe's hanging by a nail – no wonder she fell." He scratched at the frightened animal's neck: "Don't know how you managed it, old girl – these were new on last week," he mused, running his hand down the horse's leg to get her to pick her foot up. "Let's have a closer look at this, " He bent over, pouting slightly and muttering under his breath, "Well, well . . ."

"So, what's the verdict?" called back Darbeau.

"The shoe's hanging by a nail, like I said. If I can work that out then she can probably be ridden home. If not then she'll have to be led."

"Shall we wait?"

"God no! Either way I'll be forever and Delbecq will have your head if you don't get this lot back before nightfall – you don't need me slowing you down. I'll catch up, Charles, if I can."

Up in the middle cart Griffon grinned and remarked, sotto voce, "Plus Ca change – Idiot Boy."

Everything seemed to go according to plan from then. Posh Darbeau neither checked the prisoners nor noticed that Valjean answered from under the wagon. The convicts were escorted back inside and the wagons and horses (and Jean Valjean) were sent round to the stable court. As soon as it was dark, Valjean slipped down from under the cart, shimmied over the yard's low wall and disappeared.

However, within the prison precinct proper, the plan was rapidly starting to unravel. Delbecq had appeared and was questioning Darbeau.

"What's this about you bringing the contingent back with just you and the gendarmes? Is that right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And where's Javart?"

"The mare cast a shoe – he couldn't keep up."

"So you left him behind and conducted three wagons of convicts back on your own? If you'd thought, you would have waited. But you don't think, do you Darbeau? Did you check the prisoners over on return?"

"I called role – "

"I didn't ask if you called role," Delbecq snapped, beginning to move through the ranks of prisoners, "24905? 19602? - "

Griffon began to tremble slightly. Valjean was probably gone by now but he hadn't meant for his friend's absence to be discovered until at least the next morning. He looked down at the iron on his leg – not actually attached to anything since he had filled it through before tampering with the mare's shoes – then round at Delbecq.

"24601? 24601? - "

So he knew! But even half an hour's delay when pursued, Griffon knew from experience, could be the difference between escape and recapture. He broke rank.

No one was quite sure about the sequence of events that followed. One moment prisoner 57884 was seen to break rank, and what seemed like the next moment he was up on the lowest part of the flat part of the prison roof and still running. The yard below – both guards and prisoners – was in uproar. Only M Delbecq retained his self-possession. Drawing a pistol he calmly took aim and fired. 57884 was seen to stumble, recover himself and continue. Delbecq fired again and he fell.

"Figard, L'Anglais – go get him down. Ozy, get them to fire the alarm gun. Darbeau, you go and sit in my office and keep out of the way so you can't fuck anything else up!"


	5. The Returned Horse

Jean Valjean had escaped on the evening of the 27th November. It is on the afternoon of the 29th that we shall pick up the threads of our story again. If, on that evening, you had been sitting by the side of a hillside track on the way to Grasse – which, since it was snowing, you would have been foolish to do – you would have seen a youth on a stocky little brown horse approach at a hand canter.

Both are familiar to us. The boy we have heard referred to contemptuously as 'Idiot Boy' and, most correctly, as 'Javart'.

Javart and his little brown horse (whose name, not that it is remotely important, was Havane) were part of the party searching for Jean Valjean. Javart had arrived back at the prison late, having removed both of Havane's front shoes for safety. Had entered the prison to the sound of the alarm gun and found his fellow officers in a state of brisk panic. He was informed that two prisoners had escaped and, upon learning that those two were 24601 and 57884, had requested to be part of the search brigade. The officer in charge of the expedition, Captain Villerat, had wished to concentrate on the main coastal roads connecting Toulon with Marseilles and Cannes. Javart had pointed out, with all due respect, that he though it unlikely that the fugitives would go that way. 57884, he believed, would have advised 24601 to head up away from the sea towards Grasse or Digne. Although not entirely convinced, Villerat acknowledged that the eccentric young officer seemed to have an instinctive understanding of his prisoners and had often been proved right before. He also noted that he demonstrated a particularly intense interest in these two escapees. So he had accorded Javart two men and told him to search as he pleased, returning in three days if nothing came up.

The two other officers had not been keen and had lagged behind from the start. Javart could not now see them. They were one of a number of things he had lost along the way. A few miles back his hat had been knocked off by a low branch. Irritating though this was, he had prioritised and sacrificed it in the cause of duty. In any case, he doubted his ability to make Havane turn around and go back. He had made a vague attempt to slow her up but the mare had simply lent on his hands and carried on much as before, evidently having no desire to be still in such biting weather. Fortunately for Javart, she was not a horse blessed with a disproportionate degree of enthusiasm, so she confined herself to a slow, loping canter that is, for many horses, less effort to maintain than a proper trot. Both horse and rider had been trained in the style of the army conscript, which can best be summed up thus: "Train horse to bear rider. Train rider to cling to horse. Most likely one or both of them will have been shot before they realise they need to know anything else."

Needless to say they made a rather comical picture. The horse was muddy and unshod, looking as if she had been taken straight from the plough. The boy, rather too big for his mount, bareheaded but for the squalid scarf he used to keep back his unruly hair and shivering, wrapped in a wretched garment midway between a cloak and a blanket, since he did not own a winter coat.

To Valjean, however, they were an imposing sight. He had heard the sound of hooves on the road behind him some time back and, understanding that his was most likely being pursued, had flung himself into the ditch by the side of the road to wait for them to pass. He had breathed easier when he had seen that the rider wore a filthy cloak rather than uniform and was hatless. He looked closer and his heart leapt – could it be? The build was the same and, on closer inspection, so was the face. He had said he would come this way, had said he would meet him! Valjean had half doubted his friend when he said that, he was sorry for doing so now. And the horse – it was the little cob ridden by the young guard for whom Andoche had a particular aversion! How clever of him to steal a horse – and how like Griffon to make a joke by stealing that one! Overjoyed, Valjean jumped up from the ditch and shouted:

"Andoche! Andoche! Stop! I'm here! I'm here – it's me, Jean! Your Jean!"

Both horse and rider started and, with what seemed like a great effort, the rider turned his mount about. Valjean saw with horror that it was not Andoche – only someone very like him. The same strong build, wide jaw, short nose. But it was a boy's face not a man's, the hair poking out from under the soiled grey kerchief was black rather than grey, and the rider wore an expression of ferocious disgust which Valjean was more accustomed to see on . . . the young guard nicknamed 'Gypsy', recently transferred from Blanchard's ward. Valjean began to run.

The ground on the side of the round dipped away sharply into a wooded bank, slippery with a combination of mud, dead leaves, loose stones and the new snow. It was down this that Valjean began to run. The guard kicked his horse on and they began to plunge down the bank after him at an alarming speed. Valjean began to panic and lost his footing, landing full out in the mud. He knew that there would be no time either for him to regain his feet or for the rider to pull up, but he made an attempt to roll clear anyway. It was too late. For a few terrifying seconds Valjean was under the horse, could see the flash of the stirrup irons and the mud caked hair on her belly. For the briefest of moment the mare even put the foot bearing all her weight down on Valjean's leg, which gave a sickening crack. Then, catching Valjean a glancing blow in the mouth that forced his head back into the mud, she was gone. She only lasted a few more strides before missing her footing too. For Javart there was an instant of clarity, an infinestimably small period of time in which he could both see what was going to happen and decide what to do about it. He chose wisely, kicking loose his stirrups and flinging himself clear as Havane somersaulted arse over ears down the bank.

Five minutes later, Valjean came to in the mud. He lay with his eyes closed for a good ten minutes more, not thinking of anything. The he noticed a figure moving about a short distance away. Remembering nothing after the point when he had jumped out of the ditch he called out weakly, "Andoche", feeling the blood and grit in his mouth as he did so.

He could hear a pained groaning noise that he was sure wasn't coming from him, even though his leg hurt like seven devils. He turned his head and saw the man he had taken for Andoche kneeling beside the lumpen, ungainly bulk of a fallen horse.

"Shhh," the man said in a quiet voice, "Shush up and stop making such a fuss, old girl."

There was a shot and the man began to walk back towards Valjean.

"I shouldn't worry – I've still got one left for you if you want it," he remarked.

"Andoche?"

"Louis," said the young man sullenly, "My name is Louis. Though not to the likes of you. To the likes of you my name's Monsieur Javart." He knelt down beside Valjean and continued in a gentler tone, "Is there anything broken? Can you sit up?"

Valjean replied in the affirmative to both questions, propping himself up on one arm and spitting out fragments of two of his bottom teeth.

"Well, that makes my job a bit easier." The guard brushed away some of the blood oozing from a large cut on his cheek and stood up

"Don't, er, go anywhere," he said with a feral grin, walking away unsteadily up the bank.

It was a further half an hour before the rest of Javart's party came by. The two men scrambled down the bank, gingerly leading their horses behind them. They picked up Valjean and roughly tossed him across the first horse's back, tying him on. One of the guards looked at Valjean, then at the carcass of Havane. "Returned horse, Horse not returning," he quipped. . Javart stared at him for a moment, attempted to climb onto the second horse, and then passed out.


	6. Monsieur Thierry

Stiil not sure I care for this chapter, but I've fixed up the formatting.

* * *

Let us retrace our steps a little, something which I fancy we may do without recourse to breadcrumbs or any other aide-memoires.

Let us return to the evening of the escape attempt and the moment when M. Delbecq had just barked at a junior officer to go and sit in his office before he could "fuck anything else up."

The young officer seemed not to hear and remained in the courtyard, craning his neck up at the roof and then asking Delbecq with an eager, repentant air whether he "ought to help L'Anglais fetch down 57884?"

"I told you," said Delbecq in the tone which he was accustomed to use in taverns when asking someone to 'step outside like a gentleman', "to fuck of out of my sight!"

"Sir, I'm sorry," began the boy, "Really, I should help L'Anglais – it's my fault. Or, rather, it wasn't my fault – I did everything that I was meant to do – "

This was not a lie, since the young man was not at all given to lying, but it was none the less a blatant falsehood. Upon hearing it, Monsieur Delbecq was seen to turn an attractive shade of brick and made a lunge for his subordinate's collar, simultaneously letting fly a volley of invectives which almost drowned out the noise of the alarm gun.

A loose pane of glass in the top right-hand corner of Delbecq's office door jumped and shivered in its rickety frame when Delbecq slammed the door behind him, as if in sympathy with the equally rickety nerves of the young man who had been thrust into the office moments previously.

The sound of an ancient key being turned in a rusty lock was followed by the sound of heavy foot steps retreating down the corridor on one side of the door, and on the other, by that of the young man sinking heavily onto a geriatric rush bottomed chair.

Charles 'Posh' Darbeau sighed. This was not a situation that he was entirely unfamiliar, although this time he felt that things might have finally gone a bit far. Almost from the point where his memories began he could remember occasions like this: himself, very small, having his ears boxed by his mother; himself, slightly older, having his ears boxed by the village priest; being (repeatedly) caned by his school masters, by his mother again, by his father. His father, and their last interview together. Darbeau shuddered. And then, somehow, he had ended up here, and he had really done his best to be sensible . . . Darbeau never meant badly, he was simply maladroit.

He hadn't done badly, either until today (but that was not to be thought of). How much of that was down to Louis, however, was a question certainly worth asking. Yes, Louis Javart was a good friend to him, despite his odd ways. Very odd, some of them, but if you could get used to them then it was possible to become quite fond of him. Darbeau certainly had, which was odd since in many ways 'Posh' and 'Gypsy' were the most unlikely of companions. Anyone might have thought that it was Louis Javart who was the rich man's son rather than Charles Darbeau, since Darbeau could and would converse with anyone, make his home anywhere, a pretty young man always with a subversive joke on his lips and at least one wench on his arm. Louis, although he could entertain when he chose, entirely lacked the power to charm. He was, at heart, one of life's observers, wrapped up in a profound shyness that was read by others as pride. "King Louis" they mockingly called him, or "the prince of thieves", as if they felt the weight of his surveillance and resented it. And of course, Darbeau reflected, Louis did nothing to help himself.

Darbeau wondered what Louis was doing now, whether he had returned to the prison complex yet, and what Delbecq would have to say to him. Worse, perhaps, than the string of predictable expletives that Delbecq would sling at Javart was what Javart himself would have to say to Darbeau. He pictured his friend, eyebrows contracted, expression pitched midway between wry concern and a sort of weary contempt which would contain no surprise. "But why did you not check the chains, Charles? But why did you not count them?" Meaning, Darbeau thought angrily, _"Why are you such a fool, Charles? Why can't you just be sensible?"_ This, he mused, would be grossly unfair. Certainly Louis Javart had steered him clear of a good deal of trouble, but there were ways in which he, Darbeau, looked after Louis too. After all, that was as Monsieur Thierry had – not ordered, since Monsieur Thierry did not often need to order – but had _suggested . . ._

But he could hold that against him, and it certainly wasn't Louis's fault that _he_ was an idiot. No, he would have to get out of this one himself. That he would be leaving service at Toulon was absolutely certain, but what to do after? He leant forward onto Delbecq's desk and fell to studying a couple of sheets of course yellow paper laid out upon it. Then he picked up a quill and wrote on the first piece of paper, "Boulevard St Aubin, Vichy". Then, taking the second sheet of paper he wrote "Monsieur" then, further down, "My Father". Then he crossed this out, pressing down so hard on the paper that all the ink ran out of the quill in a great blot. He reached for the bowl of sand on the edge of the desk to blot the ink, upended it and covered the entire desk with sand. He feel to sweeping the sand into one great pile, then into lines and circles and finally spelled out "shit" with it in capital letters.

Now, Delbecq's office, such as it was, was constructed very much like a walk in cupboard tacked onto Captain Villerat's much larger office, from where it was accessible. There was just about room for a desk and a chair, the door by which one entered from the corridor, which was locked, and the door by which one could enter from Villerat's office, which was not. This door was situated somewhere behind Darbeau's left shoulder, so he did not see it open, and did not notice a man step lightly through it. So engrossed was Darbeau in his word game with the sand that he did not become aware of the man's presence at all until the new arrival was looking right over his shoulder. He turned around in his chair and found himself confronted by a figure that he found disturbing on many levels. Firstly there was the man's physiognomy to be taken into account, which was profoundly disconcerting. He was of medium height with broad shoulders and a barrel chest over which his coat pulled in odd places like a dust sheet thrown over an armchair. His skin was tanned so deep a mahogany that it was impossible to tell which part of France – if, indeed, any part of France – he might have hailed from originally, but which still retained a repulsive smoothness where it stretched over his cheekbones which, combined with his fleshy lips, over-prominent nose and beetling brows, gave him the look of an exotic species of toad. He was plainly dressed and had greying hair, close cropped as if he had been wont to wear a wig but had recently given it up.

Such was Monsieur Domenic Thierry. That it was this particular man standing behind him was, in itself, another reason for Darbeau's perturbation, He had just been thinking ofhim and these thoughts appeared to have summoned M. Thierry from the ether, causing him to appear like Old Nick in a virgin's mirror,

"Well, Darbeau, looks like you may have blown it this time," said M. Thierry, picking up the two pieces of paper from the desk.

"Yes, Sir"

Thierry frowned at the blotted sheet then, seeing 'Vichy' written on the second sheet, raised his eyebrows and made as if to tug at his non-existent wig: "Vichy? Now who could you be writing to in Vichy? Could you be writing to your father, Darbeau?"

"Sir"

"Ah, the prodigal son returns! And do you want to be writing to your father, Darbeau?"

"No, Sir."

"No, well . . . " Thierry paused as if communing with something unseen, then continued. "Do you have any inkling of the chaos that's going on down there, my lad?"

Despite his time at Toulon, Darbeau's skin was still light enough that when he blushed it was visible.

"Well, we have managed to get 57884 down off the roof. Down off the roof and into the hospital ward and I'll have something to say to that oaf Delbecq on that score. He cannot take such a cavalier attitude to damaging what s, in effect, state property. As for 24601, he could be anywhere in the Var, God damn him!"

Darbeau ventured a question, "And Louis Javart?"

"Gone with Villerat to look for 24601 – that lad's worth ten of you, Darbeau. Still, I shall be very sorry to see you go."

Charles winched as Thierry picked up the piece of paper headed 'Vichy' once again.

"You don't want to speak to your father. Which is good because I don't want you to speak to him either. What I want you to do is speak to someone else's father."

"I don't understand, Sir."

"You'd do much better as a soldier than a prison warder really – splendid uniform, all the girls love a man in uniform!"

"But I don't understand – "

"I'm giving you the opportunity to help me out and, in doing so, to help both yourself and our friend Javart"

"But what does Louis have to do with it? And why me?"

"Because no-one's going to tell their secrets to me, are they? I can't use a prisoner in this case – that would look very peculiar. You have authority, but not too much. You're very likeable . . . "

"But what's this about speaking to someone's father, sir? Whose father?"

"Why, Louis Javart's!

"But I don't know who his father is! I'm not even sure if he knows, he's never mentioned him before. Where am I meant to find him?"

"In the hospital ward."

"In the - ? What? You don't mean?"

"57884. Right name Andoche Javart. Do you know what he's here for?" He handed Darbeau a small leather bound book, "Anyway, this is all you need to know in here, and all I want to know. Oh, and at the risk of sounding like Delbecq, hurry the fuck up with this – I'd like the information before 57884 snuffs it."

Charles Darbeau did indeed visit 57884 in the sick ward. Since the youth had made himself a promise that he would "never speak again – or, at least, only speak about the weather" there is no record of what he said to Andoche Javart.

The matter of whether Andoche spoke back to him, and the usefulness of what he may have had to say if he did speak, can be measured by the fact that on the morning of the 2nd Darbeau received a letter and spent the rest of the day looking very cheerful indeed. On this day he also decided to pay another visit to the sick ward.

"What are you after then?" the medical orderly enquired with a mixture of wariness and bemusement, "And why haven't you been fired? Anyway, if you're here to ask questions of our escapologist friend, he's passed on . . . Well out of it to be frank with you. Very nasty business."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Why? Scum of the earth and it lands Delbecq in a right nasty position."

Darbeau made another 'oh' sound, one pronounced in a very different tone, "I'm not here about that. I'm here to see Javart. Louis Javart."

The orderly raised his eyebrows slightly. Why had Posh thought it necessary to specify Louis Javart – there was only one Javart about the place to his knowledge.

Javart was discovered sat up in bed, still looking a little worse for wear – he had a long, heavily scabbed cut running under one cheekbone and his normally piercing eyes had an unfocused expression, partially covered by heavy eyelids that drooped as if their lashes were weighted with beads of lead.

"What, you mean Delbecq's not had you sacked?" he remarked rather grumpily upon seeing Charles, then added in a tone which had much in common with the Gobi dessert – both dry and cold – "or shot"

"How charming, " Charles replied, surprised since he always expected Javart to be friendlier than he actually was, "What was that for?"

"Because you're a damn fool," said Louis tersely, closing his eyes in a way that suggested that the effort required to keep them open was untenable.

"Fine, yes," said Darbeau, not taking a seat.

"I'm sorry, you are. But I'm glad to see you all the same. I'm bloody bored here. Nothing they can do for me medically – I'm only here because Monsieur le directeur considers it bad for moral to have people vomiting and fainting about the place. I can see his point. You know what happened, yes?"

"I've been told," said Darbeau archly, "You're quite the hero, aren't you? Unlike me."

"No rudeness meant, Charles, but what are you still doing here?"

"Waiting to clear out! I'm joining the army – with commission! No more checking chains for me – just blood, gunpowder and glory."

Javart gave a disbelieving grim and shock his head. This evidently hurt him, so he stopped.

"See, soon you'll be able to out hero me, Charles."

"That I doubt. They say your man, 24601, is doing nicely. The leg was broken, but very cleanly. Nothing to stop him making himself useful throughout the rest of his time here."

Javart made an approving little grunt: "And . . . ?"

"57884 is dead," Darbeau told him in a tone pitched very correctly between solemnity and indifference. Since consideration came slightly more naturally to him than common sense, he then changed the subject:" I leave within the week – maybe even leave France in a month of so. I'll write – and you'd better write back, mind1 If you don't I'll take all my leave to come back here and make you write in your own blood using my saber! Maybe I'll get sent to Egypt!" he exclaimed, and pursued the thought with a selfish, innocent delight. Javart smiled a weak, grave sort of smile and ran a hand along his cut cheek.


	7. Epilogue flickers on the horizon

. . . the day after my visit from Charles Darbeau (which was also, so I am informed the death of **(_several words inked out_)** the prisoner numbered 57884) I was visited by M. Thierry himself. He was most complimentary about my conduct and treated my with the condescension which he had always been good enough to show me. I was made bold enough by this to ask if I might return to my duties. I did so on the 4th or 5th, I believe.

As for Jean Valjean, I was only to see him once more during my time at Toulon. He was not deemed fit to return to work until the New Year of 1801, and I happened to be present on his first day out on fatigues. I am not sure why – put it down to the inexperience of youth – but I felt the need to approach him. I recall that he flinched away as I drew near to him, as if expecting a blow. Of course, I did not strike him. All I did was tell him that I was watching him, that I knew who had schooled him – far better than most did I know that! – and so I knew what he was capable of. I told him to bear in mind that I would always be watching him.

As it happened, I was transferred back to Blanchard's ward shortly after and so was unable to fulfil my promise. In 1802, as you know, I was to leave Toulon all together in order to begin work in the service in which I am honoured to still find myself today.

All this is, of course, by the by. Suffice to say that I never saw Jean Valjean again until . . . I might say "until I came to M-sur-M" but that would be to over simplify matters. I no more knew Madeleine to be Valjean when I first arrived there than I know how to speak German. However, I can recognise German when I hear it spoken and, in much the same way I knew that Madeleine was not what he should be.

But, of course, you will need to know when I first knew that Madeleine was Valjean, rather than simply believing it likely.

What happened was this: One day in December last an old carter named Fauchelevant was involved in an accident. As I recall, his horse had spooked at something and bolted, losing its footing and falling down, overturning the loaded cart as it went. Fauchelevent, by a great stroke of ill-luck, ended up trapped underneath the cart with its whole weight pressing straight down across his chest. Now, this would have been all very well in summer when the weather was dry, but it had been raining solidly for at least a fortnight and the unpaved backstreets of the town where quite as much river as road, which made things far worse.

By chance, I had been nearby at the time of the accident and so was able to be on hand almost immediately. I found myself in the most wretched and difficult situation – Pa Fauchelevent was trapped between the wheel of the cart with its weight, as I have said, bearing down directly on his chest and the state of the road was such that the cart was gradually sinking down into the mud, increasing the pressure on his ribs with every passing second. Meanwhile, the nag was thrashing about between the shafts, attempting and failing to get back on its feet, and this movement only help to make the cart sink further. The first thing I did, then, was to cut the beast's traces, and then turned to see if it would be possible to pull Fauchelevent clear if the movement was quick enough. Myself and a young mason named Savy took hold of Pa Fauchelevent to try, but before we had moved him a hair's breadth it became clear that there would be no possibility of our doing it fast enough. Another onlooker suggested that he and Savy could shoulder up the cart, allowing me to pull Fauchelevent clear. I was more than ready to accept his suggestion until Savy, who spent his life shifting and levering heavy objects, voiced doubts that this would work either. He said that the only way to lift the cart would be from underneath, either by means of a jack or by a man crawling underneath it performing the same action by lifting it on his back. I had no reason to doubt Savy's professional judgment, but looking at the weight and size of the cart I knew that there was no way I - and I am by no means a small man – or any of the bystanders, despite their being strong working men – masons, farmers, soldiers – could do it. I shook my head and sent Savy off for a jack.  
Seeing as the situation was, for the time being at least, hopeless the bystanders fell back slightly, still watching with avid, if resigned, fascination. I could not resign myself so easily to the role of a simple spectator – after all, both a man's life and the credibility of my office were at stake. I paced around in an agitated fashion, searching for any improvements that might be made. I noticed that, despite my having cut its traces, Fauchelevent's old jade of a horse was still thrashing pitifully in the mud, evidently having broken a leg. Unarmed myself, I borrow a gun from one of the soldiers who had gathered on the spot. I had to get down in the mud with the animal in order to calm it sufficiently to have a clean shot. Finally, it was still and I levelled the gun up between its eyes. Then I heard a voice come from the edge of the crowd saying, "This can't wait a quarter of an hour". I pulled the trigger, looked up, caught sight of the speaker and suddenly _I knew._

"It'll be too late," Madeleine continued, "Don't you see the cart's sinking deeper?"

"No, no, that had never occurred to us," I though savagely, hauling myself up from the mud. The townsfolk had gathered around him, looking at him stupidly.

"Look," said Madeleine, "There's still room for a man to crawl under the cart and lift it on his back."

"Well now, Jean Valjean, I have you now," I thought to myself, recalling the freakish strength which 24601 had exhibited on fatigues. After all, if we can do things ourselves, we often believe that others can also – maybe Jean Valjean did not realise that his strength was that unusual?

Obviously, no one in the crowd moved.

"Is there anyone here with the muscle and the heart? I'm offering five Louis d'Or!"

No one moved.

"Ten," for a moment I forgot about Jean Valjean, I was simply so angry with Madeleine. That sort of behaviour is utterly typical of him. If there's a problem, throw money at it. Just as stupid as the lacksidaisical, disorganised, self-indulgent 'kindness' he inflicts upon people.

"Come! Thirty!"

How could he be so stupid? Walking towards him, I said, "It's not that we don't want to" Madeleine/24601 turned and glared at me – for interrupting his theatrics – but I continued. "It's a question of strength. You need to be tremendously strong to lift a load like that on your back."

He looked at me as if that had never occurred to him before. I hazarded another remark, testing the water and pressing my earlier intuition: "I have known only one man, Monsieur Madeleine, capable of doing what you ask."

He blenched slightly and I continued, very slowly and lightly: "He was a convict."

My potential Jean Valjean manged to keep his cool at that, but when I added, "In the Toulon galleys" he gave a discernable shudder.

We were staring at each other in a manner that was beyond the mere reading of faces, and I felt another jolt of recognition. Then we were interrupted by another cry of pain from Pa Fauchelevent and Madeleine, as if recalling where he was and who he was meant to be, called out, "Is there no-one prepared to save this man's life for thirty Louis d'Or?"

I have only known one man capable of doing the work of a jack. The man I mentioned" I answered him, speaking both for my own suspicions and on behalf of the circled of bystanders, now cowed and silent. Madeleine had made them ashamed that they could not rescue Fauchelvant, although he was asking the impossible of them.

And then he did it. Madeleine did the impossible. In a matter of minutes the cart was raised up on his back, Fauchelevent was pulled clear and there was no real doubt left in my mind. When he got out of the mud and back on his feet, Jean Valjean looked at me very sadly, and I could see that he knew as well as I did. No further action was required on my part. Yet – and I am almost ashamed of myself for it – I still felt the need to test the ice between us. As I handed him back his coat, when he had given me before attempting the rescue, I began to hum an old prison song. If you have, Sir, been to Toulon you may have heard it – "Where are the children who bear my name?" etc. It gave me childish pleasure to see how he grew pale under his caked layer of mud.

Well, since then there has been little for me to do but wait. After all, certainty in my eyes is not the same as certainty in the eyes of the law. I had to trust that the opportune moment would arise which is what, Sir, I relate to you now . . .


End file.
